


Exactus

by Danruu



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Drama, M/M, Reference to Torture, Slow Burn, harrowings, reference to abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-19 00:14:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3589134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danruu/pseuds/Danruu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When I arrived in Kirkwall, Samson and I shared quarters. He seemed a decent man, at first."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Exactus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3962254) by [rene_n](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rene_n/pseuds/rene_n)



> Because I love to torture myself, here begins my next big project. Yes, this will be multi-chaptered. 
> 
> The rating is subject to change, there will be smut later on. I'll add things to the tag list as I go!

“Welcome to Kirkwall.” The toothless sailor smiled mockingly at him as Cullen stumbled off the ship, glad to finally be on dry land after a long, unpleasant crossing. He’d spent much of the voyage from Ferelden to Kirkwall clinging to the side of the vessel, emptying the contents of his stomach into the inky black ocean.

 

“The Gallows is just up there.” The sailor pointed to a stone staircase, barely visible behind the crowds of people milling about the docks. The stream of refugees from Ferelden had finally started to slow with the end of the Blight, but the docks were still full of families trying to secure access to the city. “Some of these people have been here for weeks; you should consider yourself lucky you’ve got somewhere to go already.” The sailor regarded Cullen, who didn’t respond. He wanted to feel lucky.

 

The decision to ship him off to the Free Marches had been made without any input from Cullen himself, but Knight-Commander Greagoir had insisted it was for the best. Cullen couldn’t stay at Kinloch Hold, and apparently was not yet fit for the duties of a Chantry-based Templar in some little village. He needed a Circle, and the closest had been across the sea. He’d been glad of it; a chance to get away from Ferelden could only be a good thing, though now after a week at sea he wasn’t so sure. He should have at least visited his family before he left...

 

“Thank you.” Cullen gave a curt nod, pushing down any unwanted thoughts and heading through the crowds towards the Gallows. He had no belongings, only the clothes on his back and the single coin in his pocket. The Order would provide everything else on his arrival he’d been told, as it always did. He wouldn’t need anything else. Just the armour, the sword and shield, some simple clothes, and the lyrium. It was the same everywhere.

 

“Ser Cullen?” An older Templar approached him, and Cullen immediately straightened up, hoping his hair wasn’t too unruly. “I am Ser Emeric, I was sent to bring you to Knight-Commander Meredith, she’s expecting you.” Emeric had a kind face, and he smiled warmly at him. “You’re a bit younger than I thought you’d be, they don’t usually ship the younger ones overseas! Don’t worry about the stench, you’ll get used to it. We all do.”

 

Cullen let Emeric talk, more interested in taking in the sight of the Gallows as they walked into the courtyard. He’d never seen anything like it before, every building was towering, white stone and gold statues of twisted, starving figures. It was intimidating, and Cullen felt every inch the country boy he was.

 

Emeric led him through wrought iron gates, into a corridor of two offices. The door to one was ajar, and Cullen could see a tall elf in the telltale mage robes of his station sat at the desk there. First Enchanter Orsino, Cullen assumed. He’d heard Irving mention him before.

 

“The Knight-Commander is in here. I’ll be waiting to give you the tour and show you to your quarters when you’re done, you must be exhausted.” Emeric gave him another encouraging smile that Cullen tried to return.

 

“Thank you.” He replied, suddenly aware that it was the first thing he’d said to the man. Then he turned to the door and knocked twice, trying not to be too nervous.

 

“Enter.” The voice behind the door called out, and Cullen did so.

 

Knight-Commander Meredith was an imposing woman, sat behind her desk in full armour, shining silver in the afternoon light. She looked every inch the Holy Warrior, and Cullen was suddenly aware of his rumpled tunic, messy hair, and the ever-present dark circles under his eyes. He shifted a little under her piercing gaze. Her eyes were disarmingly blue.

 

“Ah, Ser Cullen. I’m glad you are finally here. I trust the voyage wasn’t too taxing?” She didn’t smile, but her words seemed warm as she gestured for him to sit in the chair opposite.

 

“No, Knight-Commander. It was fine.” Cullen perched on the edge of the chair, trying not to fidget.

 

Meredith’s gaze had dropped to a letter in front of her. Cullen could just about recognise Greagoir’s hand writing. “Knight-Commander Greagoir informed me of what happened at Kinloch Hold. I understand it was... trying for you.”

 

Cullen bit his lip, keeping his breathing steady. “Yes. Knight-Commander. It was... difficult.” Difficult. Watching his friends be killed would definitely be considered difficult. Being kept locked in a prison for days, weeks, with barely any food or water, with no lyrium, that was _difficult_. Knowing that mages who could be possessed were still free, that was _difficult_...

 

“Faith is made to be tested.” Meredith’s voice interrupted his thoughts, and Cullen looked up at her. She was studying him carefully, but her expression was softer. “Here you have a chance to put the past behind you, but also put what you have learned from it into practice. We have a sacred duty to uphold, and you are a part of that Ser Cullen.”

 

Cullen nodded. He wanted to serve, he’d all but begged Greagoir to be allowed to stay in the Order after the uprising at Kinloch, when there had been whisperings that he’d lost his mind. He hadn’t lost his mind, he’d gained wisdom. And it seemed Knight-Commander Meredith would agree. It made him feel... better. Like someone understood finally.  “Yes Knight-Commander.”

 

Meredith made a noise of approval at his agreement. “I believe you will fit in well here Ser Cullen. The Gallows is perhaps a little stricter than some Circles, but it keeps the mages safe. That is our duty. That is what it means to be a Templar. I trust you will keep that close in the days to come.”

 

“Yes Knight-Commander, I just want to serve, and protect people from the dangers of magic.” He said earnestly, finally meeting her eyes.

 

She smiled.

 

“And you will. I’m sure of it. But for now you have come a long way, and could no doubt use some rest. I have taken note of your circumstances and have put you with one of our older Templars, he should be... calming.” There was an uncomfortable emphasis on that word. 

 

Cullen tried not to frown at that. He wanted to ask why the Knight-Commander felt she needed to room him with someone ‘calming’, but he had a feeling the letter in front of her held the answer to that. Knight-Commander Greagoir worried too much.

 

“Welcome to Kirkwall Ser Cullen, and to the Gallows.” Meredith smiled again, and Cullen was dismissed.

 

*

 

Emeric had given Cullen a tour of the Gallows, and Cullen had tried to be alert and interested. In reality he was exhausted, and more than a little overwhelmed by it all. He’d almost shed a tear of relief when he was finally shown to his room, and then to the barracks’ bathhouse. All he wanted to do was wash the dirt and grime and sweat from his trip away, then sleep without being rocked by the sea for the first time in days.

 

As he’d predicted he’d been left clothes, all just about his size, and his new armour was already on one of the two stands in the small room. The uniform was slightly different to Ferelden, and he looked it over curiously as he’d dried off after the much-needed bath. Emeric had finally left him be, with a promise to show him the rest of the city tomorrow, and he was grateful for the sudden quiet.

 

He sat on his new bed, peering out of the small window that overlooked the courtyard. There were people milling about, mages and Templars both, even a couple of civilian merchants packing up their wares as the sun began to dip behind the buildings. He wondered idly how he would describe this place to Mia; it wasn’t like any city he’d ever seen before. Even the temperature reminded him of just how far he was from home. Ferelden was never this warm.

 

A noise at the door snapped Cullen out of his thoughts, and he looked up with wide eyes at the sudden disturbance. He calmed as he saw familiar armour on an unfamiliar person. Person, his mind noted, not demon. As his more logical brain took over he assumed this was his roommate. Older than him, as Meredith had told him he would be. The man was tall, broad, long brown hair framing an angular face.

 

“I’m Samson. Heard they were sticking me with our new token Ferelden, didn’t think you’d be so young though.” The Marcher accent was strong, though which city state specifically Cullen had no idea. Samson didn’t look particularly impressed and Cullen found himself bristling defensively almost immediately. He chose not to respond, opting to stare out of the small window and down into the courtyard instead.  

 

“Heard things went to shit at Kinloch, that’s a damn shame, Knight-Commander Guylian always spoke well of the Ferelden Circle.” Samson attempted to make conversation, but Cullen simply turned a little to make it clear he was not interested in talking. Especially about Kinloch Hold. It had been difficult enough with Knight-Commander Meredith. Now he was even more exhausted and off-guard. He could feel his heart beating faster just thinking about it.

 

Samson knew nothing of this of course, and rolled his eyes as he took the hint and turned towards his bed to begin stripping off his uniform. “Suit yourself. Though it never does much good to be the mysterious type around here, just makes for lonely mealtimes.”

 

Cullen continued to stare out of the window, watching as a Templar nudged his friend and stuck out his foot, sending a young apprentice mage sprawling onto the concrete, the basket of herbs he’d been carrying flying everywhere. They were laughing as the man scurried to pick them up, face red with humiliation. Not long ago Cullen would have been disgusted, angered even, by the sight. Now he just felt cold indifference.

 

His eyes moved from the window to glance at the back of his new roommate. Samson seemed to have given up on making conversation with him, instead focussing on taking off his heavy plate armour and letting it fall onto the mattress of his cot. Cullen continued to watch as Samson pulled off his grubby undershirt too, leaving him only in a pair of breeches. He was muscular, broad-shouldered with dark hair that trailed across his chest and down. Cullen quickly averted his eyes as Samson noticed him looking.

 

“If you’re going to check me out you could at least say hello first.” Samson drawled, a smirk on his face that grew wider as Cullen’s cheeks went pink and he stared pointedly at the wall.

 

“I’m not...” Cullen began, trying not to get too flustered. Of course he’d embarrass himself within minutes of meeting his new roommate.

 

“Ah! You do have a voice after all!” Samson grinned victoriously. “I wondered what it would take to make you say something.” The laughter was deep and rumbling and bounced off the walls as Samson hefted his armour onto the stand by his bed.

 

Cullen blinked in surprise, then glared in an unspoken accusation. Suddenly Cullen missed Carroll, slow, simple Carroll. Samson was a little too clever for him and Cullen had a horrible feeling he was going to spend a lot of time tripping over his words around this man.

 

He hadn’t even been looking at Samson like that. Not at all.

 

“You must be tired after your trip. You should sleep.” Samson said, ignoring Cullen’s reproachful stare. “You’ve got drills in the morning. With me. And I don’t go easy on anyone, not even the newbies.” He smiled again. He smiled a lot, Cullen noticed. “You’d better not be a snorer.”  

 

*

 

Cullen wasn’t a snorer, but that didn’t mean that Samson was in for a quiet night.

 

His body twitched as an unfamiliar sound pulled him from his sleep. The nights were unbearably hot at this time of year and Samson’s usually deep sleeps had become thin and restless. For a moment he lay there, sheets kicked off and chest bare, trying to figure out what had pulled him from his rest.

 

He didn’t have to wonder long, a whimpering sound from the cot a few feet away revealing the culprit. “Maker’s balls he better not be jerking off...” He muttered to himself. Samson was well versed in bunk sharing etiquette, and most people waited until at least their second night before doing that. He also knew it was bad etiquette to listen in, but it was so quiet in the tiny room he couldn’t help but strain his ears trying to pick up the sounds.

 

Cullen made another noise from his bed, and Samson frowned a little. That certainly wasn’t the sound of someone trying to get off without anyone hearing. It was a frightened sound, like a whimper. Samson knew he should ignore it; he wasn’t here to play babysitter, but he still found himself shifting, turning over to squint at the body not four feet away from him. “Kid... Cullen. You alright?” There was no answer, and Samson sat up a little to get a proper look at him.

 

Cullen was huddled up under his thin blanket, his whole body shaking as if he were freezing cold. There was a mumbled stream of “Please, no.” and “leave me be.” from the boy, accompanied by the occasional twitch, as if someone had touched him and he was pulling away. Samson frowned as the pleading grew louder, the twitching more violent, and was about to lean over to shake Cullen into consciousness when the blond suddenly jerked awake, eyes wild as he cried out in fear.

 

There was a long pause, silent save for Cullen’s ragged breaths. Their eyes met in the dark, the silence still deafening. Samson knew he should ask him if he was alright, but he held back. He didn’t know why.

 

“Don’t.” Cullen finally said, his voice quiet but firm. He kept his eyes cast down, even as he turned over to face the wall, his shoulders tense.

 

Samson stared at his back for a moment. He should speak to him. Ask him what was wrong. He should, and if he were a better man then he would. But this was the Gallows, and Cullen was not his friend. It had been Meredith’s decision to put this twitchy young Templar in Samson’s room, and the rest of it was none of his business. If Cullen wanted to talk he’d have to use his own damn words.

 

Samson swallowed down his guilt and lay back down to sleep. Damn the Knight-Commander. Cullen was none of his business.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a marathon fic, but I have a vague plan of where it's heading... 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's read it so far! <33

The next morning Cullen woke to the sound of Chantry bells feeling more exhausted than the night before. To his relief Samson was already gone when he rolled out of bed, after the night before he had no desire to face his roommate just yet, and was determined to put it off as long as possible. Although his stomach protested Cullen didn’t leave his room for breakfast, though he groaned a little as he remembered they had drills that morning. It seemed his plan to avoid Samson was going to be more difficult than he’d planned.

 

Putting on the armour again was strange after a week of being without it. The heavy weight of it was comforting, and although it wasn’t the same as Ferelden’s uniforms, it was a familiar. He spared only a passing glance at himself in the mirror before leaving his room, making a face at the dark circles under his eyes. He’d hoped coming to a new city would have been enough to banish the nightmares, but it seemed he wasn’t that lucky.

 

It was already sweltering outside, the temperature difference between Ferelden and Kirkwall all the more obvious now Cullen was back in his uniform. Back in Kinloch the layers had been appreciated, keeping him warm against the cold and damp of the tower, now it felt oppressive, and he was already sweating underneath it.

 

The walk to the training yard wasn’t a long one, but Cullen still dragged his feet. Samson grinned at him as he approached, as if nothing had happened the night before. Cullen wasn’t sure if he was grateful for that or not. “Morning Rutherford.” Samson nodded to the weapon rack next to him. “Grab a sword and shield and we’ll see what Ferelden teaches its Templars.”

 

Cullen said nothing as he took a sword and shield, the familiar weights a small comfort in this unfamiliar place. A few Templars were loitering, watching out of the corners of their eyes. They wanted to see what he was worth, and Cullen was determined to prove he was worthy of their respect.

 

He moved first, aiming low to try and get under Samson’s shield, but the older man moved faster than he expected, parrying the blow easily. Cullen noticed that Samson wasn’t carrying the usual shield of the Templar Order; his shield had the symbol of the Chantry on it, a gold sun that caught the light. It was beautiful, and Cullen was curious as to why Samson carried it, but he had no intention of asking.

 

The other Templars in the yard were watching more obviously now, leaning against the wall and smirking. That only drove Cullen to push harder, and he moved to strike at Samson’s sword arm instead, a careful side step to dodge his shield. Samson grinned a cheerful, friendly grin, as he knocked Cullen’s sword back almost effortlessly.

 

Cullen used to spar with Carroll like this, or attempted to anyway. Carroll had never been much of a fighter, and it had saved his life when the demons had come. Cullen hadn’t been kind to him for that, for guarding the dock while his friends had been slaughtered, while Cullen had been tortured... Cullen tried not to remember the hurt on the Carroll’s face as he’d spat the venomous words at him.

 

He could hear the Templars talking between themselves as he and Samson continued to spar, and though Cullen knew he had to focus, he couldn’t help but listen in.

 

“I heard his Circle fell. The robes almost killed every Templar there. If I were Greagoir I would have retired in shame.”

 

Cullen scowled, trying to hit harder, faster, desperate to prove himself to these men. He was a good Templar. He wanted to serve. What had happened at Kinloch Hold wasn’t his fault, not even the Knight-Commander’s. It was Uldred, it was all Uldred. He’d fooled them all.

 

“...tortured apparently. For days.”

 

His stomach growled, hungry, but not hungry like he’d been while locked in that vile prison that made him hate the colour purple. That kind of hunger was agony, stabbing pain in his gut that made him want to claw the walls for a way out. He felt light headed, but nothing like the weakness from hours and hours without water, forced to lick the walls in hope of stray moisture...

 

Cullen shook his head to chase the memories away and to move his sweaty curls from his eyes. Samson was still smiling, oblivious to what Cullen could hear. One of the Templars, a bald man with a cruel sneer, didn’t even bother to whisper as Cullen moved to strike at Samson again.

 

“If they’re anything like this one, no wonder their Circle fell.”

 

Cullen froze, the words echoing in his head as his chest became tight. Samson’s shield hit him square in the chest and he was knocked to the ground, landing on his back in the dust. He knew they were laughing, but everything sounded so far away, like he was underwater. There was a buzzing in his ears.

 

Samson loomed over him, offering a hand to help him up, but Cullen knocked it away. He didn’t need his help. He didn’t need anyone’s help. “Just leave me alone.” He hissed, before turning on his heel and leaving the yard, heart thudding in his chest like a drum, his sword and shield lying abandoned in the dust.

 

The Gallows was huge, and it didn’t much for Cullen to get turned around. The passage he found himself in was mercifully empty, and he leaned against the cool stone as he gasped for air. He was too hot, but shivering, struggling to breathe as if someone had put a boulder on his chest. This had happened before at Kinloch, he’d thought he was dying. Greagoir had helped him. He tried to remember the man’s voice, low and calm.

 

“Breathe Cullen.” He’d said. “Breathe slowly.”

  
“Breathe...” Cullen whispered to himself, willing his heart rate to slow, his shakes to stop. He wasn’t sure how long he was stood there, his forehead pressed against the wall, but finally he stepped back. He was himself again. Whatever that was now.

 

Cullen straightened up and continued to walk. He found himself in the courtyard at the front of the Gallows, empty at this time of day, save two mages talking in low voices by the door. They were young, a girl and a boy, they couldn’t have been more than fifteen, but Cullen was on edge. Two mages talking in whispers couldn’t mean anything good.

 

“You two! What are you doing here?” Cullen’s voice didn’t waver, it sounded strong, confident, foreign to his own ears. The mages jumped and turned sharply, eyes wide and frightened.

 

“Nothing ser! Just talking!” The girl stammered, her cheeks going red as she glanced at the boy. “We just wanted some... some privacy.”

 

Cullen was not unfamiliar with such things. Kinloch Hold had had its fair share of relationships and all associated dramas. They were technically forbidden, as those relationships had the potential to end on a tragic note, a child that couldn’t be kept, a cruel practice that Cullen had questioned before. Now he was seeing clearly. He understood.

 

“This is not a social club.” He said coldly, looking between them. “If I see you two talking alone again, I will report you to the Knight-Commander and you will face the appropriate punishment. Is that understood?”  They nodded, eyes cast down, and the girl all but ran when he waved them off, keen to put distance between herself and the boy she’d been caught with. It was for the best, or so Cullen told himself.

 

What he didn’t see was Knight-Commander Meredith, watching from a window overlooking the courtyard, a small smile on her face as she made a note to watch the young Ser Cullen.

 

*

 

“Rutherford! Hey, Rutherford!”

 

Cullen ignored the voice calling him as he barged into his room. He knew he wouldn’t be alone long as Samson caught up to him. After he’d stormed out of the training yard Cullen had avoided any more contact with his fellow Templars, instead retreating to stand watch over the mages in the Gallows library, a quiet job, usually given to older Templars, but one that Meredith had assigned to him for when he needed it. He hadn’t thought it would be so soon.

 

“What happened to you? Haven’t seen you all day, and Emeric says you were supposed to get the grand tour of Kirkwall?” Samson was asking, but Cullen could barely hear him. He felt a light headed again, and despite it being late afternoon it was still unbearably hot beneath the armour and padding. “Don’t tell me you were sulking ‘cause I put you on your arse?” Samson’s arrogant smirk made him scowl.

 

“Fuck you.” He growled. “I’ve got nothing to prove to you or any of them.”

 

Samson looked at him with a bored expression. “Whatever. Usually people don’t get their knickers in a twist over some sparring, but if you want to play the martyr and be a loner, be my guest.”

 

“You didn’t hear. You didn’t hear what they were... what they saying...” Cullen trailed off, his speech slurring as if he’d been drinking. His hands were balled into tight fists, and he was sure he was shaking. His vision was blurring, his breaths becoming more difficult...

 

And the next thing he knew he was on the floor, being propped up by Samson as the other man was pulling at the straps on his armour with one hand. The other was wet and being pressed against his forehead. Cullen made a confused sound as he tried to remember how he’d got there.

 

“Easy there. You gave me a bleeding heart attack.” Samson muttered into his ear. “Let’s get this armour off you; you’re overheating like a nug in an oven.”

 

“What happened?” Cullen frowned, staring up at the white ceiling and letting Samson move him so he could lift the heavy plate from his shoulders.

 

“You passed out, and I caught you before you brained yourself on a bedframe.” Samson replied as he scrabbled for the jug of water on their shared bedside table. “What have you eaten today?”  Cullen didn’t reply, as there wasn’t an answer to give. Samson swore as he held a cup of water to his lips. “And I bet you haven’t been drinking enough either. Maker’s balls kid.”

 

Cullen scowled again and moved to take the cup from Samson, not wanting to be coddled even as he didn’t make any attempt to move just yet. He drank the water, and Samson filled it again twice more before he was satisfied and sat Cullen up.

 

“Look here. I don’t know what shit you’ve seen, what shit you’ve been through, or how you’re feeling. And frankly, I don’t want to know. But don’t kill yourself on my watch.” Samson spoke firmly, as if to a child, and Cullen looked firmly at the floor to complete the picture. “You’re coming to breakfast with me tomorrow. And lunch. And I’m going to show you round this crappy city myself.”

 

“I don’t need a babysitter.” Cullen tried to protest, but Samson only shook his head.

 

“Tough shit. Now get ready for bed, while I get you something to eat. Bloody idiot.” He said, but not unkindly, and Cullen felt a stab of something... guilt maybe? Embarrassment. Shame. A yearning to be close to someone again perhaps, though he didn’t think on that for too long.

 

*

 

That night Samson found himself awake again, listening to the sound of Cullen’s nightmares. The quiet murmurs were louder this time, the pleading more obvious, and this time Cullen thrashed about in his bed like he was fighting invisible foes. Samson only watched and waited, and when Cullen finally jerked awake with a strangled cry, he slid a cup of water across to him.

 

He’d expected to be ignored, as before, but this time Cullen grabbed his outstretched hand, holding it tight, his eyes wide and scared in the dark. “I’m sorry...” Cullen mumbled, though for what for Samson didn’t know. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”

 

Samson just held on, until Cullen’s eyes closed and he was asleep once more. Then a little longer. Just in case.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this update has taken so fricking LONG. Real life has been kicking my butt. 
> 
> I didn't do exactly what I wanted with this chapter, but here it is. 
> 
> Samson <3

The days turned to weeks, those weeks turned into a month, and Cullen fell into a routine at the Gallows. He’d always been good at routine; as a child he used to wake up at the same time every day back in Honnleath, always early. His brother had hated it, but in the Templars it was a useful skill, and in the Gallows even more so. On the rare occasion he did manage to sleep, he liked to be up before Samson.  

 

Cullen had decided he didn’t like Samson. He’d been watching him for days from across the courtyards, watching how Samson joked and laughed with his charges like they were his friends. He’d known Templars like that back in Kinloch Hold, and they’d been the first to die at the hands of Uldred and his blood mages. Cullen had considered telling Samson that, but given the man was still spending every other night holding his hand while he fought off demons in his sleep... he decided against it.

 

For the most part he avoided his roommate, beyond watching him sullenly whenever he had the chance. The man seemed popular among the mages, and a few of the older Templars, though there was a group that avoided him. The Templars had their own social groups, and while Cullen had decided against socialising with anyone, he had to admit he was happier to be roomed with Samson. The alternatives weren’t ideal.  He stood watching the man sullenly as the shadows in the yard grew longer, and he barely noticed the Templar approach him as he glared at his roommate.

 

“Ser Cullen.” The Templar cleared his throat, and Cullen recognised him as one of the men who had mocked him the day he’d practiced with Samson in the yard, he tried not to bristle immediately. “Knight Commander Meredith requires your presence. Follow me.”

 

“I know where the Knight Commander’s office is.” Cullen replied curtly, earning him a dark look.

 

“She’s not there. I’m to accompany you... elsewhere.” Cullen frowned at how vague the Templar was, but followed him into the Gallows and up several flights of stairs. He’d finally learned his way around the floors he frequented, but he had yet to visit the upper rooms of the building.

 

It took one final set of stairs for Cullen to finally realise where he was being taken. The chamber on the top floor, just like at Kinloch Hold. The safest place for a Harrowing. His heart began to beat faster almost immediately. He had not overseen a Harrowing, or even stepped foot in a Harrowing chamber since the Circle at Kinloch fell. He acted as if his sudden shortness of breath was from the stairs, not from the way his stomach coiled and his mind reeled.

 

The chamber in the Gallows was similar to the one at Kinloch, but brighter, the stones the same pale grey as the rest of the hold rather than the dark bricks of Ferelden structures. It was lit with many candles, but that didn’t help put Cullen at ease right now.

 

Knight Commander Meredith standing in the middle of the room, in full armour as she always was, sword clearly visible at her hip. First Enchanter Orsino stood beside her, talking to a young mage girl. Cullen recognised her, the girl he’d seen talking with the boy on his first day in Kirkwall.  She looked afraid now, and so very young.

 

Cullen stopped listening, and stared at a spot in the wall to try and calm himself. He knew why he was here, why Meredith had chosen him. He was to be the one, if it all went wrong, to stop the mage before any damage could be done. It was a test, one he had to pass. If he didn’t, he knew he would never be more than a babysitter to the children, never able to truly serve. He didn’t want that, he never had. It was why he was here and not in Ferelden after all.

 

The Harrowing began, a process he was familiar with. It was the same in every Circle, the same test. He remembered Amell, his first Harrowing as the appointed slayer. She had been fine, more than fine. _The quickest, cleanest Harrowing they’d ever seen_ they’d said. Perhaps this one would the same.

 

The wait felt endless and the silence was deafening. Cullen was sure everyone could hear how his heart thumped in his chest. He sent up a prayer to the Maker that this Harrowing would go smoothly, that he wouldn’t have to face this yet.

 

The Maker didn’t listen.

 

He froze as the mage suddenly cried out, his eyes wide as he watched the girl writhe on the floor, the sudden transformation causing her to contort wildly. Cullen couldn’t hear, could barely breathe as he watched. It took him back, right back to the Harrowing chamber at Kinloch Hold, right back to that foul prison.

 

“Ser Cullen...”

 

He had to strike, he knew he did. It was only one abomination. But he knew how quickly one could turn into ten, twenty, more than he could ever have hoped to fight off. _It wasn’t his fault... He’d tried, Maker knew he’d tried._

 

“Ser Cullen!”

 

His eyes were wide with fear and panic as he looked at Meredith, just making out her voice over the roar in his ears. She was still holding her arm up, stopping the other Templars from assisting him. This was his test. He was a Templar, this was his place. He wanted to serve. He needed to.  

 

Cullen raised his sword and clenched his jaw. It only took one long-practiced swing of his blade to bring the abomination down, and as he felt the rush of adrenaline he stepped forward to sink the blade into its heart, the foul noises fading and the twisted flesh stilling. The whole encounter had taken mere minutes, but Cullen felt as if he had just fought a war.

 

 Meredith was smiling as he turned to face her, the warmth in the expression not meeting her eyes. “Very good Ser Cullen.” She said with a nod of approval. “Today you have proven yourself stronger than the events in Ferelden. I believe the Maker has great plans for you.”

 

Cullen couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt proud, but under Meredith’s praise he felt himself smile a little, even as his heart still raced. How good it felt, to know he wasn’t worthless, that what had happened in Kinloch Hold could be left in the past. He hadn’t realised how much he’d needed to hear those words, that he was _good_ , and now he only wanted to hear them again.

 

“You’re all dismissed, let the Tranquil clean up, and rest well, for our work is never done.” Meredith strode out of the Harrowing chamber, her armour catching the light and shining as she descended the stairs.  Cullen spared only one more look at the body on the floor, a long, hard look, to remind himself of why he was still here, before he too left the chamber.

 

It wasn’t until he was alone in the hall leading to his room that the glow of pride faded and left him gasping for breath in the dark once more.  

 

-

 

Samson had waited for him. He didn’t know why he’d waited for him; it wasn’t as if the kid was a friend. That fact alone bothered him enough to warrant a justification for sitting up long after the sun had gone down. Clearly he was waiting because otherwise he’d just get woken up by clanking armour or Cullen’s inevitable nightmares.

 

Samson had grown accustomed to their unusual arrangement, and had even started finding some strange enjoyment in it, thoughts he was eager to push out of his mind. Cullen was almost ten years his junior and far too much like a wounded puppy for him. Or so Samson kept telling himself when he traced the veins on his hand with his thumb every night.  

 

The door finally clattered open and Cullen stumbled in, looking dazed. He didn’t look at Samson or offer any kind of greeting, and Samson sat up a little to watch him. Cullen’s stare remained fixed on the window, though he didn’t seem to be focused on anything as he undid the buckles of his armour. In the candlelight Samson could just make out the blood on the silverite.

 

“Rutherford...” He began, but trailed off as Cullen didn’t react, just continued stripping down to his breeches. When he was quiet like this Samson could see the gauntness of his face, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders drooped like he had the weight of the whole world strapped to them. He was a sorry sight.

 

Samson expected Cullen to slink into his own bed, so he looked up in surprise as Cullen sat on the edge of Samson’s bed, avoiding his eyes. His hands were shaking. And suddenly Samson realised. The late hour, the blood on Cullen’s armour. A Harrowing. They’d chosen Cullen to end a fucking Harrowing. Not just any Harrowing, one every Templar had been sure would be a failure, a girl with little talent for magic, plagued by nightmares, terrified of the whole world. What a sorry end. Samson felt a mix of pity for the man now sat on his bed, and the girl he’d killed, but mostly anger, anger at the Knight Commander who’d had this boy kill someone just to prove a point.

 

“Maker...” He breathed, and Cullen finally broke, his shoulders shaking with gasping sobs. Samson didn’t know what to do, so he let instinct take over, pulling Cullen to his chest, letting him hold on as he trembled and cried. Samson ran his hand through Cullen’s curls, laying back against the pillows with him.

 

He didn’t know why he kept doing this. The kid was messed up, he needed to be packed off to a quiet little Chantry in the countryside where he couldn’t hurt or be hurt by anyone. Any Knight-Commander with a brain could have seen that. But for some reason he was here. In Kirkwall. Ruining Samson’s sleep pattern. And for some reason Samson just couldn’t stop trying to help him.

 

“It’s going to be alright kid.” He murmured into the dark as Cullen finally stilled, his breaths ragged but even. He didn’t let go, and neither did Samson. “It’s going to be alright.”

 

How was Samson supposed to know he was lying?

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at: http://stripeydani.tumblr.com/


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